


Ex's and Oh's

by grey2510



Series: Tumblr Prompts and Requests (SPN) [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Cas doesn't really appear in this fic), Alcohol, Angst, Dean and Crowley are kind of friends, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Love Triangles, M/M, Past Crowley/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, but not really, technically post s12e09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Dean finds a text on Cas' phone that sends him to the bar. Crowley decides to spend some time with his ex...drinking buddy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThayerKerbasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/gifts).



> Written for a Tumblr prompt: #47 “No one needs to know", with a special request for Crowley -- requested by ThayerKerbasy
> 
> Title taken from the song by Elle King...and the fanvid version featuring Dean Winchester ([here it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhquAU3zR-w) in all its bisexual glory if you haven't seen it -- it's a thing of beauty).

He doesn’t mean to look. Well, maybe he does a little. It’s not like Cas is a social butterfly—as far as Dean knows. Plus, he figures if anyone’s texting Cas who isn’t Sam or himself, it’s probably Claire and so sue Dean if he’s a little protective and wants to make sure the kid’s ok. He’s not sure she ever even knew about when Lucifer was walking around looking like her dad, so that could be an awkward—no, traumatizing (they’ll save “awkward" for dinner at Jody’s, though you could probably make a case for traumatizing there, too)—conversation.

And he doesn’t think Cas and Crowley are texting BFFs; pretty sure Crowley just pops in whenever he wants to annoy the crap about of Cas. Although, who knows after their little adventure together. He still can’t believe Cas decided he’d rather pair up with _Crowley_ and—

Yeah, that line of thought gets cut off pretty damn quick when he sees who _has_ texted Cas.

Mary Winchester.

He can only see part of the text on the lock screen— _Hi, Castiel. I was wondering if you could help me with..._ —but it’s glowing like a damn beacon on the library table.

Right. Great. Because of course Mom had fucked off to parts unknown all of two days after she and Cas had busted him and Sam out of jail. Made sure they were walking and talking, a few awkward hugs and dinners, and then back to go find herself or whatever.

Seems she made a new friend during the whole process. Someone she actually wants to stay in contact with, do stuff with.

Awesome. Good for her.

  


**********

  


“Charming place,” Crowley greets the hunter steadfastly parked on a barstool. By the look of the slump of Dean's shoulders and the crumpled beverage napkin by the tumbler, he would have to guess the man’s been pickling his liver in this dive for awhile.

Dean looks up from his deep contemplations of the row of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. “The fuck do you want, Crowley?”

Climbing onto the neighboring stool, Crowley addresses the bartender instead, “Well, for starters, I’ll have a whiskey, please.” Even demons can be polite; besides, better service that way. “Your best—not whatever rotgut he’s drinking.”

The bartender grimaces apologetically. “That is our best.”

Dean snorts, taking a sip from his tumbler. “Just get him something fruity with a little umbrella.”

The bartender’s eyes flick between them, unsure what to do. Crowley gives her an out. “That would be fine. Surprise me.”

“Coming right up,” she nods, obviously eager to get away.

“Whad’you want, Crowley? How’d you know where I was?”

Crowley resists rolling his eyes. “The fact that you have managed to stay alive, or at least not permanently dead will always be, considering how utterly predictable you are, one of the great mysteries of the universe.” He pulls out his phone and rests it on the bar top. “I arrived at that hole in the ground that you boys call home, risking life and limb, of course—I noticed you’ve reset the wardings, so—"

“You’re welcome,” Dean snarks.

Crowley ignores the interruption, unlocking his phone and pulling up his image gallery. "—so I arrive, with extremely valuable information, vis-à-vis the whereabouts of the soon-to-be literal spawn of Satan—" He slides the phone across the wooden bar to Dean, who takes only the most cursory of glances at the picture of a very pregnant (especially considering it’s only been a few months) Ms. Kelly Kline. “—only to find one very distraught angel and one very disgruntled moose, and no squirrel to complete the set.”   

“Chasing Lucifer’s Lewinsky?”

“Something like that. For a political aide, she’s been extremely adept at hiding herself; I suspect Rosemary’s baby might have something to do with it. And it’s not as though I’ve had much else to do while you and Sam were taking an extended government-sponsored vacation.”

Dean glares at him, his face almost gaunt in the shadows of the poorly lit bar and the purplish neon light of a beer logo. He turns back to take another drink, and is clearly annoyed to discover an empty glass. Fortunately for him, the bartender is just sliding Crowley’s very pink and fruity concoction in front of him. She eyes Dean’s glass, and he just taps a finger on the top with the barest hints of a smile. No patented Dean Winchester charm, and considering that the view is quite attractive for a joint like this in the middle of Kansas, Crowley is immediately put on an even higher alert than he was before. She takes a bottle from under the bar, refills the glass, and moves way to serve another customer. Dean immediately takes a swig.

“So,” Crowley observes, watching the woman fill an order for cheap beer for two guys with the same (lack of) fashion sense as the Winchesters, “either the great Dean Winchester has already struck out with our lovely barkeep, or he hasn’t even made a pass. I’m not sure which is more troubling.”

“Fuck off, Crowley.”

Instead, Crowley raises his glass slightly. “Cheers.”

The cocktail is surprisingly good. He’d expected it to be obnoxiously sweet, but there’s enough citrus—grapefruit and orange, from what he can taste—and tequila to balance it out. Dean follows suit with his own glass, although Crowley does notice how the man’s eyes subtly track the entrance of a second bartender: male, thirties, dark hair, beard.

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley leans ever so slightly to the side in Dean’s direction, half-whispering conspiratorially, “Ah, so no _Miss_ Barkeep, then? Really, Dean, if you were looking to relive old times, you could have just called me. No one needs to know. I can be discreet when it suits me.”

Every muscle in the hunter’s body coils, and Crowley’s quite confident that if they were anywhere else, this conversation would have resorted to violence by now. In truth, Crowley’s a little disappointed when Dean deflates without even a modicum of his usual bluster and posturing.

“That’s over, Crowley, and you know it. I ain’t a demon anymore. That wasn’t me.”

“That _was_ you, and don’t pretend it wasn’t.” Crowley pauses to take another sip of his drink. “Besides, we were over before you lost the black eyes. We were over before we began. But you can’t blame a girl for trying—I always did enjoy a little competition, the thrill of a torrid affair.”

Dean’s jaw is set and his brow furrows. “Competition?”

“Don’t play stupid, love. It doesn’t suit you, no matter how many times you try it.”

“Whatever.”

They drink silently—not quite companionably, but close enough—for several minutes.

“So, what,” Dean says, “we just gonna sit here and drink ourselves to death and pretend that I ain’t a hunter and you ain’t the King of Hell?”

“Must we bring work into this?” Crowley sighs. “I was thinking slightly antagonistic but mostly civil exes—you can keep the Bunker and the pet angel, but we can argue over who gets custody of Sam on the weekends.”

“Stay the fuck away from Sam,” Dean warns, but they both know it’s mostly just reflex at this point. “And Cas ain’t a pet.”

“What is he, then?” Crowley pries, not expecting an answer and not getting one. He doesn’t need it, though. He, unlike the emotionally constipated hunter who’s generally closer to finding Narnia than something other than flannel in the back of the closet, knows exactly what Castiel and Dean are, and are not, to each other. Honestly, it had taken all of his will not to yank the bloody phone out of Castiel’s hand and just tell the two of them to grow a fucking pair each and sort out their damn issues whenever the angel had made one of his absolutely revoltingly, domestic calls to Dean during their search for Lucifer.

He wonders how Sam manages not to kill the pair of them on a regular basis.

Then again, for all of the younger Winchester’s smarts, the boy can be incredibly stupid about some things.

Even if that thing is his own brother.

So maybe Sam is blissfully oblivious.

Crowley may be a little envious in that regard.

“Hey, uh,” Dean stutters out, staring resolutely at this glass, “never did say...thanks. Y’know, for going in with Cas against Lucifer.”

He looks up and meets Crowley’s eyes; they’re wide with vulnerability and almost painful to behold. If Crowley weren’t a demon, he might consider this a miracle.

“Please. I just couldn’t bear the thought of Vince Vincente making a comeback. Ladyheart was bad enough on their own, never mind with Lucifer fronting the vocals.”

Dean huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

They leave it at that, because that’s all that needs to be said. They understand each other, even if they each hate to admit it. Dean rips a corner of the napkin off, rolls it into a small ball between the tips of his fingers. From somewhere behind them, gruff voices grow more and more agitated until a female voice emphatically tells them, “No one’s pulling out any rulers, boys, so shut up and just fucking play the game.” After that, the sounds of general chatter and the clack of billiard balls return as the ambient soundtrack of the bar.

“Last time we did this,” Dean tries again, breaking the heavy silence between them, “I played Dr. Phil for your mommy issues. ‘m I gonna have to do that again?”

“Rowena is," Crowley considers, finishing off the last swig of his drink, "not causing problems for once. I’m letting sleeping dogs lie.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

“I have more pressing concerns at the moment. If and when I need Rowena to sort out the Luci Junior problem, I know where and how to find her.” Pushing his now empty glass back to the edge of the bar, Crowley signals to the bartender—their original one—for another; she nods and pulls out a metal cocktail shaker. He turns a critical eye towards Dean. “So, how are things with _your_ mother?”

“Don’t talk about her.” He flicks the tiny napkin ball onto the bar.

“Tsk tsk. Here we are, having a friendly conversation—"

“We’re not friends, Crowley.”

“—and I ask a perfectly innocent, and in my opinion, uncharacteristically polite and concerned, question—you’re welcome, by the way—and this is the response I get?”

“Fuck you.”

“Flattered by the offer, but I rather think that ship has sailed.” A new pink drink lands in front of him. “ _Gracias._  And another for my _friend_ here.”

Dean glares at him, but doesn’t decline the drink order. He downs nearly half of the new tumbler in one go.

“How many is that for you, anyhow?”

“Aw, Crowley, you worried ‘bout me?”

“This is an Armani suit. I’d rather not have it ruined if you lose your lunch. Or was that of the liquid variety, too?”

“Shut up.”

Crowley snorts. “Is this where I rejoin with the schoolyard classic, ‘Make me’?”

“Jesus Christ, you never stop talking, do you?”

“Why would I when you’re so easy to rile up?” Dean simply rolls his eyes, and so Crowley continues, “In any case, _I'm_ not the one who brought up someone else’s mother in a thinly-veiled attempt to discuss my own family drama. So, trouble in paradise? Mother Mary not all apple pie and PTA meetings?”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw tightens. Crowley narrows his eyes, considering the man next to him. Finally, the pieces all click together. He practically chortles. Oh, this is _good_.

“I see,” he drawls, smugly. “Not fun when your mother fills the son role with someone else, is it? Or,” he grins, “is that you’re not sure if it’s even a _mother-son_ thing? Your mother is a fine young thing—younger than you, matter of fact—and that Castiel has what one might call a certain sex-appeal, and—"

His back slams into the bar, and Dean’s fist is wound tight in his lapel. The hunter had moved with lightning speed, especially for someone more than a few whiskeys deep, standing and pushing Crowley, nearly knocking over the pink cocktail on its spindly stem. He can hear, from behind him, both bartenders rush over to where they are, but Crowley is more concerned with the nearly feral stare of the hunter looming over him.

“Hey, there a problem here?” the bearded bartender cuts in. Dean’s eyes flick briefly towards him and Crowley can almost see the mental calculations behind that thick Cro-Magnon skull.

“No,” Dean says, releasing Crowley, who stands, straightening his lapels and jacket.

“Just a little argument between friends,” Crowley confirms. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t care what it was,” Ms. Barkeep says, her voice firm and brooking no argument; this clearly isn’t her first rodeo, so to speak. “You two pay up and get the hell out of here before we call the cops.”

“Fine. It’s all on his tab,” Dean says, and storms away.

Crowley sighs, and pulls out his wallet. 

  


**********

 

His head is pounding as he leans against the steering wheel. He’s too drunk to drive back (Dean’s done a lot of stupid shit, and he figures he’s got a pretty short expiration date, but if he’s gonna go out, it’s gonna be fighting some nasty, not wrapping Baby around a telephone pole), he really doesn’t want to call someone to come get him, and it's way too fucking cold to walk to whatever motel is nearest or to sleep in the car. He’ll just have to sober up as best he can here for awhile, then figure out what he’s going to do.

His spins his phone between his fingers, hands dangling between his knees.

He could call.

Should call.

He just—

The passenger door opens, the car dips to the right, and the door creaks and thunks closed again.

“What the hell,” he mutters, not bothering to look up. “Can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”

“No,” that smarmy British voice replies.

Dean sits up, rubs his eyes. “Don’t you have something better to do? _Anything_ better to do? Other people to annoy?”

“Not really, no.”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say the demon almost sounds...wistful. Lonely.

The worst of it is, Dean _does_ know better.

Fuck his life. It’s really come to this: sitting wasted in the parking lot of a shitty Kansas bar, commiserating with a lonely and almost maudlin (and goddammit, he’s pretty sure he picked up that word from Crowley somewhere along the line) King of Hell.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not for awhile. Not unless you got some magic hangover cure.”

“Wrong supernatural creature for that, Squirrel. Demons aren’t much into healing without a deal. Angels, on the other hand..."

“And you’re not driving Baby.”

Crowley lets out a dark chuckle. “And everyone always argues about whether Sam or Castiel is the one true love of Dean Winchester’s life.”

Dean chooses to ignore that. “Are you really gonna hang around until I sober up, you get bored, or we get pissed and kill each other?”me

“If that’s what it takes.”

“For what?”

Crowley doesn’t answer.

Dean starts the engine, just to get a little heat going. The radio turns on automatically, and of course it’s fucking REO Speedwagon. He jabs a finger at the console, not even caring that the next station it lands on is NPR. Better than “Can’t Fight This Feeling".

“I liked that song,” Crowley complains mildly.

“I don’t care.”

They sit there, absently listening to some segment on all the shit going on in Syria—because of course humans are just as horrible, if not more so, than the monsters they hunt.

His phone vibrates in his hand. It’s been going off ever since he got to the bar, but he’s been ignoring it. He finally gives in, though, and swipes the screen open. Six unread texts, one missed call—Cas, and one voicemail (he’s guessing that’s also from Cas). Two of the texts are from Sam: “Hey where are you" and “Guessing you’re at a bar or whatever. Don’t do something stupid. Call if you need me. Cas is worried.” The other four are from Cas, but Dean can’t bring himself to read through them. He also can’t bring himself to listen to the voicemail.

He’s being stupid, he knows he is. Especially considering half-read text messages are what got him into this mess in the first place.

“You know you don’t have to hide those from me,” Crowley says, and Dean can feel the demon’s eyes on him, “considering I already had to listen to your nearly-nightly and nauseatingly sappy talks with the angel while he and I were off on our besties buddy cop road trip. Hard to have a boys’ night out when one of you has to keep checking in with the nagging wife.”

“Crowley—" he growls.

“Alright, I’ll go. Call your angel. Sober up. Go home. Get your head out of your arse, and take the stick out of his.” The demon climbs out of the car, but before he closes it, he leans down inside, one hand braced against the roof. “Or put one in. Your choice.”

“Crowley, I swear to god—"

“Yes, yes, grievous bodily harm. I’ve heard that song before, darling. I’ll be in touch.”

And with the closing of the door and a slight whiff of sulphur, Crowley disappears.

Frowning, Dean looks down at this phone. His thumb hovers over the call symbol next to Cas’ name. He brings the phone up to his ear.

“Hello? Dean?”

“Hey, Cas.”  

**Author's Note:**

> If Dean/Crowley is your thing, definitely check out ThayerKerbasy's series, ["The Misadventures of Growley and Squirrel"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/543232).
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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